


vraiment de quoi aurions-nous l'air

by poisonousforyoureyes



Category: Matthias & Maxime (Movie 2019)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, also fight club spoilers in the first chapter i guess, also this is totally me vicariously living my gigantic crush on matthias, anyway they're in love sorry i don't make the rules, everyone: 'so poisonous what did you do during the quarantine?' me: 'uh', in which i kick open endings in the butt, it's really hard to write about characters whose names are so similar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonousforyoureyes/pseuds/poisonousforyoureyes
Summary: Matt and Max's lives change; everyone has their own reaction.
Relationships: Matthias Ruiz/Maxime Leduc
Comments: 55
Kudos: 103





	1. Sarah

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is for anyone that ever took part in the great "did they really stay friends and nothing more at the end or was Xavier talking out of his ass" debate of 2020 (with all due respect to Xavier).
> 
> Title is a line from _Il suffirait de presque rien_ , a 60s french song you hear in the movie (in the scene at Francine's garden party when she's preparing the food and Max is sulking in the corner because Matt is late and his life sucks). It's about a man telling the girl he loves they can't be together because she's too young for him and people would give her hell for dating an older guy. I'm sure you can see why a song about love stifled by social conventions found its way into this movie.

**After the night of Sharif's party**

It’s a well-practiced routine: every time one of them gets dumped, Sarah and her mates arrange a night of wine-drinking, rom-com-binging, nail-painting, furniture-smashing, you name it. It’s a tradition they started in high school, the day Denis Simard let Claire know that there was no need for them to see each other anymore because he’d found some other girl and that one was willing to put out. “Did he tell you that?” Sarah asked, ready to march to Denis’s home and slash his tires in feminist outrage. “No, not in these words,” Claire answered through helpless wails that were honestly heartbreaking (and a little annoying, because it made it very hard to understand what she was saying), “but he said Marthe Gauthier invited him to a party at her house this Friday and that’s basically the same thing.”

And then she broke into a fit of hysterical sobs because her life was totally over and she’d probably end up a spinster and never get to have sex. At that point Charlotte and Sarah knew they had to do something and, after a tricky bit of convincing their respective parents to let them go out on a school night, ran to Claire’s home (well, Charlotte ran, as she lived right down the street. Sarah had to take the bus). It took many hours, two trashful of used tissues, relentless reassurances of “no, she’s not hotter than you” and “yes, he totally has funky eyebrows” and one bottle of dodgy scotch they stole from the living room cabinet before Claire dried her tears and declared that if Denis was dim enough to pass on “such a perfect package of awesome and smart and sexy”, well, his loss. “I am no bird, and no nest ensnares me!” she chanted, sliding around the room on her desk chair while the other two cheered her on (they’d been reading _Jane Eyre_ for English class). And then they all puked their brains out, because as it turns out, scotch straight from the bottle is not a particularly smart choice of drink when you’re fifteen and new to the art of getting hammered.

It was almost worth having a guy break up with you just for these girly (then womanly) moments of support, Sarah thought. Of course, she didn’t feel as cheerful when she was the one getting dumped.

She definitely doesn’t feel cheerful now, not at thirty, not when she’d been so sure she’d never have to go down that road again.

“So Matt is, what, gay now?” Charlotte asks, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“That’s so reductive. I hope you know you’re being very reductive right now, Charlotte,” Claire tells her, waving her glass in the air, a bit too wildly for someone so attached to her spotless cream carpeting.

“It’s a valid question! Tons of men wait forever to come out.”

“Just because he’s in love with a guy doesn’t mean he’s gay! He could be bisexual.”

 _Here we are_ , Sarah thinks. These words. “In love with a guy”. It’s not just that Matt fell in love with someone else. He fell in love with another man. With _Max_. Sweet-faced Max, who was always nice to her, who never sat down with his beer if she didn’t have something to drink herself, who once listened to her complain about her boss for hours, long after Matt’s other friends (and Matt himself, if she was being honest) had stopped paying attention. Max, who’s been Matt’s best friend since they were kids. All because of a bubbly teenage girl whose idea of deep filmmaking was to get them to kiss on camera. It’s so ludicrous Sarah can’t bring herself to feel anything else than complete disbelief. Surely these things don’t happen in real life.

And yet, at the same time, it makes a strange amount of sense. It seems like something she should have seen coming, and in a way, maybe she has.

“Sarah?” Claire asks, squeezing her shoulder gently. “You’re still with us?”

“Are you in shock?” Charlotte wrinkles her nose in compassion. “Like these women on the news who lost their homes in an earthquake and even though they look like they’re holding it together you just know they’re crumbling inside.”

“I don’t think it’s quite the same thing,” Claire says.

Sarah speaks quickly before they can start bickering: “I didn’t ask him. There was so much to discuss already. I mean, we live together. Even if Matt told me to stay and he’d be the one to move out…”

“How big of him,” Claire mumbles under her breath.

“… I can’t afford the rent on my salary alone so we had to tell the landlord we were giving up the flat. And even if he was gay all along, it doesn’t really matter now. I hope not, obviously, but either way our relationship is over.”

She says these last words decidedly, because she doesn’t believe in skirting the cold hard facts, but at the same time they feel so strange coming out of her mouth. She and Matt were together for years. She thought they’d get married. She pictured what their children would look like more than once. _So long, hypothetical kids! Daddy’s ran off with his best friend, so no existence for you._

Maybe she’s had enough to drink for tonight.

“That bastard!” Charlotte exclaims, shaking her fist in a way that would probably look more threatening if she wasn’t sporting a six-month pregnant belly. “I could kill him for doing this to you.”

“It’s fine,” Sarah answers tiredly. And, when she’s met with skeptical silence: “It is!”

“Oh I see,” says Claire, nodding in shrewd understanding. “We’re being brave and magnanimous about this.”

“Well, I’d take brave and magnanimous over bitter and resentful, thank you very much! Anyway, it was obvious he didn’t mean for it to happen and… you know we were getting serious. I’d much rather take this over some pretend marriage like in the fifties where I’m miserable and don’t understand why he only wants to fuck from behind…”

“Matt only wanted to fuck from behind?”

“No! Of course not. It’s just an example.”

“I always thought Matt was great in bed,” is Claire’s helpful contribution.

“Why were you even thinking about that in the first place?” Charlotte asks incredulously, and this time Sarah doesn’t try to interrupt as they launch into an argument as to whether it’s appropriate to gauge your best friends’ boyfriends’ skills in the bedroom.

Because Matt really was great in bed. In life, generally speaking, he could be a bit selfish, but not when it came to sex. He always made sure she got off as well, and not by half-heartedly asking after they were done like so many guys did: he’d go down on her for as long as necessary (and yes, she knows you shouldn’t have to shower guys in praise for giving a damn about your pleasure but as it is it’s still far from being the norm, so). But now Sarah won’t get to enjoy these kind of attentions anymore, not from him at least; Max will, and he’ll soon discover what it feels like to be at the receiving end of Matt’s uniquely intense focus. Possibly he already knows.

She actually asked Matt. After that night. When your boyfriend comes home at dawn guilty faced and reeking of booze, it’s not the wildest assumption to make. That’s the thing: Matt had been behaving like a complete lunatic for weeks and she’d finally understood, by that point, what the real problem was. Possibly that’s why she pushed him into going to the party. Possibly she knew he would have to deal with his issues, though likely not in a way that would benefit her.

“Did you sleep with him?” she asked. She knew it might happen and she still let him go. Because “love martyr” was the look of the week apparently.

To his credit, Matt didn’t flinch. “No. I mean… almost. But no.”

“What does that mean? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. She stared at the pale light filtering through the living room curtains. Before, when she thought about ever having to deal with infidelity, she’d always pictured herself shrieking like a banshee, crying, maybe smashing a few plates. She’d never imagined she would sound so calm.

“So that’s what you were doing all night? Getting drunk and almost-but-not having sex with someone else?” She wouldn’t have spoken any differently asking him what he had for lunch at the office.

“No. I, uh. I went to a strip club, actually.”

 _That_ got her to drop the detached tone: “You went to a strip club? What the fuck?” A pause, during which Matt stared intently at his feet. “My god,” she said. “You really have lost your mind.”

He finally lifted up his eyes to meet hers and then, insanely, they were laughing. They laughed together for a few minutes, until there were tears in their eyes and an ache to their stomachs. She knew, then, that it was the last laugh she and Matt would ever share as a couple.

“So… we have some decisions to make,” she said when silence settled between them once again.

“Not necessarily,” he answered hurriedly, a panicked look on his face. Still trying to cling to his old life, as if that was even possible after everything. _Get a grip, dude_. 

“It seems like we do.” And they did. And now Sarah’s single.

“So he’s been friends with that guy forever, right?” Claire asks. “And you never suspected anything?”

There it is. Sarah knows that’s a question she’s going to get a lot over the next few months. And while Claire’s sympathetic, most of the others won’t be. She can already hear the badly-concealed judgment in their voices: _but these things don’t just happen. Surely you must have noticed something._ She feels like Ross from _Friends_ when he found out his wife was a lesbian.

“No… I mean, I don’t know,” she sighs. “They were always kind of intense but I figured this was just one of these guy friendships, you know? I think they met in the first grade, and to Matt’s mom he’s almost like a second son.”

“That sounds a bit weird, if you ask me. Almost incestuous.”

“I know, right?” Charlotte chimes in. “Can you imagine ending up with someone who knows what you looked like in high school?”

“I’m pretty sure Matt was already hot in high school.”

“Oh my god, you did not just say that.”

Sarah thinks back to the day she met Max. It was only a few weeks after she and Matt had started dating: apparently you couldn’t consider yourself properly involved with Matthias Ruiz until he introduced you to his best friend. “So you’re the better half, then,” she told Max jokingly. They both gave her a startled look, as if she had accused them of something. In retrospect, that should have told her everything she needed to know.

There’s so much that makes sense now. She’s started to look back to her life the way you do a film with a twist ending: checking for clues you might have missed on the first watch. Edward Norton and Brad Pitt were the same person all along; Max’s never had a serious girlfriend the whole time she’s known him. Sure, the birthmark probably had something to do with it as well, but it honestly wasn’t that bad, and there were still plenty of girls who would have gone wild for his soulful eyes and gentle demeanor. She told Matt they should set him up with one of her friends at least a dozen times, but he never seemed to like the idea. He liked his space but he never seemed to mind the way Max was always hovering around him. They’d sometimes touch each other a bit more than strictly necessary, which neither of them ever seemed to notice.

She was right: it would be ludicrous if one movie kiss had been enough for them to fall in love. As it happens, the kiss just helped them realize they’d been in love all along.

“It just doesn’t mean anything anymore, you know?” she declares suddenly.

“What doesn’t?” Claire asks distractedly.

“Our relationship. With Matt, I mean. If the whole time, what he really wanted was a guy he’s known since he was five.”

Claire stops rummaging through the kitchen cupboards; Charlotte looks up from the Ikea catalog she’s been flipping through. Both are looking at her with such naked, sincere sympathy that Sarah has to fight an overwhelming urge to dissolve into tears, right there at the dinner table.

“Oh, Sarah,” Claire says softly while Charlotte walks around the table to put her arms around her. “Don’t think that. Maybe Matt really did fall for that dude all the way back when they were shoving crayons up their noses or whatever. That doesn’t mean what you two had together was fake, or that he never loved you.”

Charlotte nods earnestly: “Totally! You were together for so long, there’s no way he could have been pretending the whole time.”

 _I know that_ , Sarah wants to snap. That would be unfair, because they are saying exactly the right things, things she would say herself if the positions were reserved. And yet she can’t help but feel condescended to, even if she knows they don’t mean it that way. It’s going to take more than a few comforting words for her to stop feeling like the insignificant roadblock to Matthias and Maxime’s great love story. But she can also recognize that’s a bit above her friends’ pay grade. 

Meanwhile, Charlotte goes on: “I don’t know why people act like you can’t love more than one person at the same time. Remember first year of university when I couldn’t choose between Pierre Caron and Antoine Leblanc?

“Who could forget,” Claire replies, rolling her eyes. “You ended up having a threesome and it was so awkward you never spoke again to either of them. Nice solve.”

Sarah can’t help it: she bursts out laughing. It’s impossible not to when she’s reminded of that particular episode. Possibly that’s why Charlotte brought it up in the first place.

“You’re right,” she says. “I know you are. It’s just that I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

“Of course you do,” Charlotte answers firmly. “You’re going to find a new place to live, preferably a super cute apartment with hardwood floors and a huge balcony like you’ve always wanted. You’re going to apply for that promotion you told us about.” Gesturing to her stomach: “You’re going to make an awesome godmother for this one when she comes out.”

Sarah and Claire exchange a look: they’re always a bit taken aback when Charlotte uses that tone, but as usual she’s completely right.

“In fact, you can start now,” Claire says, bringing over her laptop. “Let’s have a look at what the housing market has to offer.”

And so they end their post-break up comforting session the way they always do: making plans, setting up goals, coming up with all sorts of ideas to make the upcoming months of heartbreak recovery bearable, enjoyable, even. They eat the chocolate monstrosity Charlotte brought for dessert (“Good god, Charlotte, has the pregnancy messed with your taste buds?”), browse through countless of ads on Craigslist (“I can’t live in Griffintown! It’s way too hip for me.” “You are totally hip, Sarah Rousseau.”), watch an appallingly bad teen movie on Netflix (“Who do they think they’re kidding? That dude’s at least twenty-five!”), until Sarah doesn’t feel quite so devastated anymore. She’s right where she needs to be, and soon enough the road ahead will be bright again.


	2. Rivette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this only took nine months

**During the week-end Max and Matt spend together before Max leaves to Australia**

Rivette was twelve when his parents told him they were expecting another child. As often had he seen his classmates suffer these unwanted additions to their families, it had never come to pass in his own. He’d thus concluded, perhaps rashly, that his status as an only child was secure. That was the first hard lesson life handed to him: never take your safety for granted.

Martine was delighted: with the children so far apart in age, there wouldn’t be any cause for the usual petty squabbles between siblings. “She’ll look up to him, and he’ll look after her,” she said when they found out the baby would be a girl, “we’ll never see one without the other, mark my words!”

Rivette had been in the presence of his baby sister for all of ten minutes before Erika proved her mother’s words wrong by catching a handful of his hair in her tiny fist and pulling as hard as her newborn strength would allow. Which was a surprising lot. After that point, it became clear that Martine’s wish for a pair of loving and quarrel-free siblings wasn’t meant to come true.

It’s more clear than ever, sixteen years later.

“For fuck’s sake, Erika! Can we have one evening, just one, without you getting in the way? Is that too much to ask?”

It’s always good to make a dramatic entrance, but this one is entirely lost on Erika. Standing at the kitchen counter, she’s stuffing various ingredients in the blender. Probably making herself a low-fat high-protein mid-carbohydrates smoothie. Or whatever’s trending on Instagram these days.

“I guess Mom told you,” is the disinterested answer.

“That you’re planning to have your posse over tonight for a wanking session?”

“Um, what? We’re going over our submissions for the Kingston film festival!”

“That’s what I said.”

Erika’s just started sprinkling her mixture with freshly-squeezed lemon juice, but she stops what she’s doing for the sake of turning around to give him a disdainful look.

“Oh my god, you’ve got like, no idea what you’re talking about. FYI, peer review is super important. That’s how we improve our technique.”

She says the word with lofty confidence, the way a gourmet chief might discussing his _cuisine_.

“How nice for you. Do you have to do it here though? I specifically requested the living room tonight.”

“Well, thing is, I’m the only one in our class who has a projector screen. The quality is, like, a zillion times better than on a regular tv.”

Rivette eyes her suspiciously. It does make sense, and yet…

“Any particular reason why you happen to have a pressing school project every time I have my mates over?” And then, in a strike of inspiration: “Do you fancy one of them? Is that it? I bet it’s Sharif. He’s quite a catch.”

Erika rolls her eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re so immature,” she sighs, with just the right amount of disgruntled scorn. She’s got the bratty teenager act down to a science, she could land a role in any family sitcom. Maybe Rivette should send a portfolio to Radio Canada. Just in case this moviemaking lark doesn’t work out.

“Anyway,” he says, “I asked mom if I could use the living room two days ago. I got there first. You snooze, you lose.”

“What are you, thirteen?”

“Funny you should say that. It’s the age I was when you showed up and started ruining my life on a daily basis.”

“Oh no, that’s right, you’re thir _ty_. My bad. And you’re still having sleepovers with your pals.”

This is a new low, having your baby sister turn up her nose at your social life.

“Gosh, you're right!" he says, slapping his palm over his mouth in mock catastrophe. “We’d join you guys, but surely there’s some kind of guest limit to the navel-gazing circle?”

He can almost hear his mother chide him wearily ( _really, Marc-Antoine, you’re the oldest, you should set an example_ ), as she indubitably would if she were present for that little exchange.

“Anyway, there’s a protocol to these things, you can’t just… What the fuck are you doing?” he says, because Erika is now smearing handfuls of the concoction on her head.

“What does it look like? I’m applying a hair mask.”

“There’s maple syrup in it.”

“Yup, it’s organic,” she answers cheerfully, bending over and rubbing her scalp so the stuff is evenly spread (and sending droplets of gooey mix flying all over the place).

“Really? Which blogger of the week convinced you that pouring liquified sugar over your head was a good idea?”

“It’s a well-known moisturizing technique, actually.” And then, with a meaningful look at his hair: “Not that you would know anything about that.”

And then she sets out on wrapping her own congealed hair in foil paper.

“Yeah, well, I know a lost cause when I see one,” Rivette retorts, waving his hand in dismissal. “Can we get back to the point? I’m telling you, I’ve already made plans!”

“And I’m telling you I need the projector! You can watch your nerdy movies on your friends’ shitty televisions.”

Rivette has taken a seat at the kitchen table, but he’s considering standing up just so he can dramatically collapse in his chair.

“Oh my god, Erika, you’re majoring in cinema, you can’t go around calling Denys Arcand’s stuff ‘nerdy’.”

“Whatever.”

That’s the thing with Erika, she might seem like a complete airhead, but she’s actually got a will of iron. There’s no other explanation for the consistency with which she gets her way. Anyway, she does have a point: a sixteen-year-old has a better claim on the family’s living space than her nearly-thirty brother. He’s been meaning to find a place for himself since he graduated from Oxford but hasn’t had any luck so far. Blame the Montreal housing market.

____________________________________________

Which is how they end up having their movie night at Sharif’s instead. (“We have the whole place to ourselves,” he tells them by way of greeting. “My roommate is away for the week-end. Gone to a seminar in Toronto. Dude never stops working.” “Look who’s talking,” Frank says fondly.)

It’s only after a hearty meal of beer and take-out pizza, as they half-heartedly watch a fourth or fifth league hockey game on Sharif’s antique television, that Rivette feels like it’s time to make his opening statement.

“So tell me,” he says, “what does it feel like to be best friends with a genius?”

“I don’t know,” Frank answers without taking his eyes away from the tv, “I feel like calling Brass a genius is a bit much…”

“Dipstick,” Rivette grumbles while Sharif roars with laughter and Brass playfully smacks Frank on the head. “I meant me!”

“And why are you a genius, Rivette?” Sharif asks on a tone one might take when indulging a pestering child, which, rude.

“I am a genius,” Rivette proclaims, letting it slide, “because I totally called it!”

And then, when he only gets blank stares in return: “Matt and Max! Going off together in the sunset! Living out their love!”

Frank raises one eyebrow in skepticism, an ability for which Rivette has always harbored deep jealousy:

“Okay, first of all: no you didn’t, and second: we have no idea that they’ve really gone off together, in the sunset or otherwise.”

“You said you dropped them off at the airport and there’s been no peep from either of them ever since.”

“Yes, but maybe Max took his plane like he was supposed to and Matt just went back home, end of story.”

“Francine told my mom Matt told her he wouldn’t be home this week-end.”

“Dude, you’re relaying gossip from your mom’s friends. That’s so weird.”

“It’s not that weird.”

“It’s a little weird,” Sharif confirms.

“And anyway, that still doesn’t prove he’s with Max,” Frank continues decisively. “Maybe he’s off drowning his sorrows somewhere.”

“Good point. Rivette, did Francine tell your mom where Matt would be spending the week-end?”

“She doesn’t know. She hasn’t asked him. She said he was old enough to manage his own affairs.”

“Hmm. Well, she’s not wrong.”

All three fall into a contemplative silence. That’s when Brass, who has so far been intently watching one of the Montreal player’s feeble attempt at making a decent pass, decides to join in on the conversation.

“Wait, what about Sarah?” he asks with the look of a guy who’s just woken up from a fifteen hours nap. “Wouldn’t she have anything to say against Matt disappearing for the whole week-end?”

Rivette stares at him: “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Brass.”

“What?”

“Dude,” Frank tells him, “keep up. They’re not together anymore. They split up last week.”

“What? Now that’s just typical. Nobody ever tells me anything!”

“Well, you could have figured that one yourself.”

“Really? How?”

“I said Matt was supposed to be at Francine’s this week-end. Do you think he would randomly go stay at his mom’s for the fun of it?”

“I don’t know, I still spend the week-end at my mom’s sometimes.”

“Yeah, but you and your mom are co-dependent.”

“Anyway,” Rivette says loudly before they can get sidetracked into one of their pointless arguments. “Matt told Sarah to keep the flat so now he’s staying at Francine’s until he finds another place to live.”

Sharif nods thoughtfully: “He must have screwed up big time if he’s the one moving out. Maybe something really happened with Max.”

“They did disappear in the back for like half an hour at your party”.

“You think they…?”

“Maybe. I mean Matt just sprang out of there and left without saying a word to anyone, then Max came out looking like he was considering hanging himself, so whatever happened didn’t end well.”

Brass lets out a laugh: “Man, Matt needs to chill.”

“He really does.”

Rivette doesn’t add his voice to that particular chorus. He might be the only one in the room with any kind of insight into Matt’s current predicament. Long ago, he went through a crisis not entirely dissimilar to the one his friend’s been facing these last weeks. In the ninth grade, he’d asked Juliette Miller to some end-of-the year party. He’d actually gone to pick her up at her house, as if they were going to prom instead of what the administration kept referring to as a “disco” (which turned out to be an awkward dance in the school gym, where a smell of sweaty socks still lingered.) While she was getting ready, he’d ended up sitting on the living room couch next to her older brother, who was playing video games. In the fifteen minutes that followed, he found himself eagerly discussing the intricacies of the Legend of Zelda universe, despite never having interacted with anything resembling a Playstation in his life. Juliette came down the stairs as her brother was instructing Rivette on the correct way to double jump. The sight of her had felt so profoundly incongruous. He couldn’t think of any reason why _she_ was the one he was taking to the party. That’s when he knew.

“Well, Frank,” says Sharif, interrupting Rivette’s musings (Thomas! That was the brother’s name), “you said you drove them both to the airport, so that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. They didn’t talk much. Not while I was there anyway. They did that thing where they stare at each other and sort of forget there are other people around.”

“There you go! They probably made up.”

“Or made out.”

“ _Dude_.”

“What? It’s nothing they haven’t done before.”

“Still doesn’t tell us what happened after Frank dropped them off.”

“Yeah! We should call the airport to make sure that there was a Maxime Leduc boarding the plane to Australia yesterday.”

“Or we could just, you know, ask them.”

“Right. Text Matt and ask if he’s having sex with Max right now. Let us know how that works out for you.”

“Gentlemen!” Rivette exclaims, snapping his fingers in the air for emphasis. “I’ll have you notice we’ve completely drifted from the point!”

“We had one?”

“Yes, that virtually none of this would be happening if I hadn’t come up with a way to make Matt act in the movie.”

Franks does his unimpressed eyebrow thing: “In that case, the credit should go to your sister. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t had the idea to shoot the movie in the first place. Would that make her a genius too?”

“Ugh.”

“Nice comeback.”

Brass, who's been walking in circles waving his arms around in an attempt to clear the smoke from the hundreds of cigarettes they've been smoking this evening, shots Rivette a look over his shoulder:

“Anyway, you can’t expect us to believe this was all part of some grand scheme. You’re not a James Bond villain, dude.”

“Excuse me, a villain? We’re talking about love, here, people. I did them a favor.”

“Hm. This could still majorly fuck up their lives.”

“Yeah. I mean, Matt did break up with his girlfriend and for what? Max’s going away for two years.”

“Well, maybe Matt will follow him.”

“Right. To Australia. That’s likely.”

“Okay, maybe not. But they can try the long distance. It’s only two years. They managed to go twenty-five years without getting it on, this should be easy in comparison.”

“Twenty-five years is a bit much. Like I’m pretty sure they weren’t thinking about ‘getting it on’ when they were ten.”

“They did make out at Karine Mercier’s party in ninth grade.”

“Yeah, Frank, this hasn’t gotten any less creepy since the last time.”

Sharif shakes his head:

“God, look at us. It’s Saturday night and we’re all slumped in my living room, obsessing about our friends’ love lives.”

They all take a moment to reflect on this sad truth. Rivette thinks back to Erika’s sneering in their mother’s kitchen that morning. Maybe they did become a bit lame. Maybe everyone does, at some point. Maybe you’re supposed to accept it and move on to the next stage of your life. Get a proper job, a mortgage, a Linkedin account. Literally zero percent of this seems appealing in any way.

“That’s probably because our own haven’t been that exciting as of late,” he says, shrugging off these morose thoughts.

“Too true,” Sharif sighs.

“Yeah, about that,” Brass says. “I’m thinking of asking Lisa out.”

They all look at him.

“Lisa,” Sharif says hesitantly. “As in Max’s coworker? His date at the party?”

Brass nods. Frank stares at him in disbelief:

“Dude, no. You can’t do that. It’s too weird.”

“Why not? It’s not like he was seriously into her.”

“Which you’d know how ?”

Sharif, ever the diplomat, comes to Brass’s rescue:

“He did invite her to a party only to end up making out with Matt for like half an hour.”

“And we keep getting back to this.”

“Well, we should! I mean, all night we’ve been discussing whether or not Max and Matt are having sex…”

“Which is a bit creepy, when you think about it.”

“… but we never considered the basic facts: it’s Matt and Max! Together! Deciding it’s time to get it on after decades of knowing each other!”

“Correction: deciding it’s time to get it on after Rivette’s sister made them kiss on camera.”

Which leads to a collective burst of laughter, Frank’s roar the loudest, Brass so lost in his hilarity he nearly ends up face down on the floor.

“Jesus,” Frank says, struggling to catch his breath, “this will keep me going for the next five years at least.”

“Man, think of all the shit we’ll be able to give Matt for this. I feel younger already,” Brass wheezes.

“Well, now,” Sharif tells them in that special gentle-but-firm voice of his, “we might want to wait a bit before teasing them about it. Give them some space. Let them figure out on their own.” He shoots them all a _come on guys, let’s be reasonable about this_ look. (He’d make such a good dad.)

Rivette thinks back to that rainy September morning he started middle school. He wasn’t feeling particularly anxious, despite not knowing anyone: he’d never had trouble making friends. They had to sit at their desks for a long time before class actually started (was the teacher late? He can’t remember). Looking around for entertainment, he’d spotted the kid in front of him reading a comic book he was trying (and failing) to hide under his binder. “Is that Warrior Angel?” he’d asked loudly, leaning forward to look over the kid’s shoulder. He’d never been self-conscious. The boy that turned around to give a shy smile didn’t seem to be anything _but_. It was easy to see why: he had a huge mark on his left cheek. It looked red and angry. Rivette’s mom always told him it was rude to stare, so he tried not to.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “My aunt gave it to me.”

“You’re lucky,” Rivette told him enviously. “My mom doesn’t let me buy comics, she says they’re a waste of time.”

(In fact, Martine had called them “a most decidedly crude form of entertainment”. “Why don’t you go pick something to read from La Fontaine instead?” she’d told him. “Now there’s a man who knew how to write.”)

“Really? Well, I’m almost done. You can borrow it if you want.”

“That’d be so cool, thanks!”

That was enough to start an excited conversation about their favorite comic books. The kid was fun to talk to (despite his obvious shyness: he didn’t dare challenge Rivette’s superhero opinions too openly). Sometimes, he’d stutter or mix up his words and get embarrassed. But then he’d glance at the boy sitting next to him and get going again. Rivette found it strange, because that boy was busy sorting out his pencils and didn’t seem to be paying them any attention. He wouldn’t have thought the two even knew each other. He didn’t hear the sound of the other boy’s voice until he interrupted his desk mate in the middle of the sentence (where was the teacher during all this?)

“… but it still sucks because now they have a lot less Spiderman books at the library…”

“Fewer,” the boy said on a tone Rivette had only ever heard his father use on phone calls with his associates.

“Fewer,” the kid repeated obediently.

And, in response to Rivette’s baffled look, “this is Matt.”

And stopping there, as if further introduction wasn’t necessary. As if he’d spoken some great truth about the world. The earth rotates on itself. The sun rises in the east. _This is Matt_.

Not even realizing he’d told Rivette his friend’s name before his own.

That’s when Rivette knew.

____________________________________________

In the end, Rivette is the one who gets to hear the whole story. Early in the evening on Sunday, as he’s checking an email from an UQAM acquaintance telling him about a vacancy in the mental health department (which, honestly, he couldn’t have dreamed as a better way to start his career), he hears someone knocking at the door. As no one else is home, he runs down the stairs to get it.

And finds Matt on his doorsteps.

“What on earth…” he starts, because it’s the worst he’s ever seen his friend looking.

But Matt walks past him and into the house as if chased by the federal police. Rivette follows him into the living room and watches him quite literally collapse on the couch.

“You alright?”

No answer. Matt is staring into space like he’s gonna find the answers to life’s many mysteries on Martine’s patchwork quilt. He's got dark circles under his eyes. His hair is in complete disarray. His striped polo shirt looks like it’s been slept in, and more than once. (He’s also wearing denim on denim but that’s, sadly, not an unusual state of affairs.) Rivette decides it’s time to honor one of his mother’s most cherished principle: better tackle on the issue with a warm drink in hand.

Which is how he ends up in the kitchen (after making sure it’s safe to leave Matt alone in the next room), brewing a pot of the strongest tea he could find. He considers pouring a finger of whisky in Matt’s mug, but maybe that’s overdoing it.

He sets the drinks on the coffee table and sits beside his friend without a word. That’s what a good therapist’s supposed to do: wait for his patient to speak first, find his own way of starting the conversation, express himself without feeling pressured to do so.

Then again, he thinks after five minutes of complete silence, they do need to get to the bottom of this before the next century.

“Were you with Max this week-end?” he asks.

A rather blunt opening, but it does get Matt to look up from his mug.

“Yes,” he says (to Rivette’s relief: frankly, with the way Matt looks, he wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d spent the last two days shooting up heroin in a ditch.) “He didn’t leave on Friday. He had changing rights on his ticket, so he pushed his flight back to this afternoon.”

“Where did you go, then?” Rivette presses on, felling less like a shrink and more like a cop.

“The Marriot next to the airport.”

“Fancy.”

“Hmm.” With a vague gesture: “All the other hotels were booked up. We didn’t care much about the location. We just wanted a place to… you know.” (Maître Ruiz’s peerless eloquence failing him once again.)

“I think I do, yes,” Rivette replies, his tone even. He feels like he needs to tread carefully with this one. It’s one thing to suspect your close friends are harboring deep feelings for each other. It’s another to be finally confronted to the reality of it.

Matt shoots him a sardonic look: “No gasp of surprise? No OMGs? No dramatic falling down? You’re losing your touch, Marco.”

“Well,” Rivette says diplomatically. “It’s not completely unexpected. These past weeks… you haven’t been the most subtle.”

“You’re kinder than Sarah. She said I’d spent the last three weeks making a total ass of myself.”

Rivette smiles. That does sound like Sarah. You had to admire her spunk, as she's the one whose long-term relationship ended over this.

“So everyone knew,” Matt sighs, leaning back on the couch, running his hands over his face. “Everyone had some kind of magical insight into my feelings. How it that even possible? _I_ had no idea how I felt.”

“Yeah, I think I read that one in a textbook once. It was called denial and it had your picture on it.”

If he spoke to a patient that way, he would lose his licence (and with good reason, too). But Matt peers at him through his fingers and lets out a tired laugh.

“Yes, well,” he says. Rivette waits for him to elaborate, but he seems to have exhausted his ability to put his feelings into words.

So it’s back to the police interrogation:

“I take it Max’s gone now?”

Matt nods. Rivette tries to come up with a line of questioning that would allow him to delve further into his friend’s emotional state, but to his surprise, Matt volunteers the next piece of information on his own accord:

“I offered to come with him to Australia. He said no.”

Rivette’s eyes open wide. Now _that_ would warrant some OMGs and dramatic falling down, but he can tell by the look on Matt’s face that it would not be received well.

“Really,” is what he says instead.

“Yes. He said it wouldn’t work, that we need time apart to figure things out. That he has to do this on his own.”

Good heaven. Rivette could never have expected this. Max’s always let Matt walk all over him. That he managed to muster the backbone to refuse him is quite frankly astonishing. (Honestly! Rivette would have said yes without a second thought, and he’s the psychologist here.) It must have taken all his strength to board on that plane without looking back.

“Well,” he starts. “Do you think he’s right?” _Because I certainly do_.

Matt’s head drop on the table (and to think that just earlier he was taunting Rivette over his taste for theatrics): “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Marco, this is all so fucking exhausting.”

He stays still for a bit, then lifts up his head to look at Rivette: “Why does he even have to leave? What’s so great about going away? And to fucking Australia?”

 _There it is_. The crux of the matter. Rivette purses his lips. The moment clearly calls for a lot of tact.

“I suppose it’s really as he told you. He needs to do this for himself.”

“Do what for himself? Go to the other side of the world, where he doesn’t know anyone, work a thankless job, live in a crappy apartment? He doesn’t even speak the language, for god’s sake.”

Matt’s facing him in all his righteous glory, in a clear rehash of what must have been the ongoing argument for the entire week-end.

“Well, yes. If it’s what he needs. I think we can trust him on knowing that much.”

Matt sighs, shakes his head. Runs a hand through his already messy hair, leaving a stray curl standing out like a feather on a rooster’s head.

“I don’t see why he needs to leave, then. Leave us.” His voice drops to a near-whisper: “Leave me.”

 _Oh, Matt_. Finally spitting out what’s really been bothering him all this time. It all just seems so absurd. The near drowning in lakes, the botched farewell speeches, the angry outbursts over a game of charade, all in avoidance of this simple truth: _I can’t take it, I can’t take this world without you_. Why does it seem easier to do just about anything rather than tell the truth? Why can’t people just say what they mean? Rivette supposes his choice of career was the right one: the forty-ish years of work that lie ahead will be just enough to give him the hint of an answer to that particular question.

“You don’t have to understand his reasons. You just need to support him.”

“So I don’t get a say? Just fuck off to the other side of the world, Max, I’ll be there when you get back? What about what I want?”

And isn’t that so typically _Matt_. Weeks (years, actually) of outright refusal to even acknowledge what was going on between them, yet still expecting to find Max waiting at his beck and call the minute he has a change of heart.

“What you want is important, too, of course,” he says gently. “But Matt, you might want to consider Max’s experience with this hasn’t been the same as yours, exactly.” And, after a short pause: “His leaving doesn’t negate what he feels for you. You’re just not all he needs out of life.”

He’s trying his hardest not to put the blame on him for being so self-involved. For all his faults, he figures his friend’s cross is heavy enough as it is right now. But Matt, lawyer that he is, sees through it easily enough.

“You’re gonna make a great psychologist, Rivette,” he tells him with a wry smile.

Rivette feels his lips curve upwards in return, and just like this, the mood relaxes a little. Matt stands up, stretches his entire body, and lays a hand on Rivette’s shoulder. It feels like _thanks_ , it feels like _I’m glad you’re not judging me, I’m also glad you’re not letting me get away with any of my crap_.

“Anyway,” he says, “we agreed I’ll come visit on Christmas. So, to be continued, I guess.”

Rivette nods. The two seem to have landed on the best possible outcome for now. So they are able to talk things through, as it turns out. They’ll figure it out. (And then, in a burst of warmth: Of course Matt and Max will figure it out. All of them will.)

In the meantime, he offers Matt the guest room for the night. “I don’t suppose you’re eager to go back to Francine’s”.

Matt lets out a groan: “God, no. I’ll give it to her, she’s been trying really hard not to ask me too many questions, but you can still _feel_ her wondering.”

Rivette leaves the room, laughing. On his way upstairs, he pulls out his phone and sends a message to Max: _You okay?_ He figures the leaving must have been hard on him too, and he won’t have a friend looking out for him tonight. He wasn’t expecting an answer right away, and yet, as he’s pulling out a fresh set of sheets, his phone vibrates.

 _Take care of him for me_.

 _Of course_ , Rivette sends back. And then, because he can’t resist the urge: _Though apparently not the way you’ve been taking care of him_.

The reaction is immediate: _For fuck’s sake, Marco_.

His burst of laughter draws a warmly-dressed Erika into the room.

“What are you doing? I saw Matt downstairs, what’s going on?”

Rivette walks over to her, putting both hands on her shoulders.

“Erika,” he tells her with great solemnity, “I have to applaud your cunning. Clearly, I’ve underestimated you.”

She frowns: “What are you on about? Are you high?”

“You did more in one night than I’ve managed to do in decades. I must admit I had my doubts, but it’s clear now: Erika, you are a Rivette.”

His sister rolls her eyes, but he can see a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, even as she mutters:

“Oh my god, you’re such a fucking weirdo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> critics: this movie is a clear highlight on Dolan's misogynistic tendencies, every female character is an obnoxious caricature
> 
> me, clutching Sarah and Erika over my heart: imagine thinking the women in this movie aren't everything


End file.
